(Fiction)
“Annie, you’ve got a letter!” exclaimed Mary as she entered her daughter’s room.
A letter? Could it be from George?
“Who is it from?”
Mary pretended to hide the letter behind her back.
“Give it to me!”
“I’m not sure I should let you have it. You are too young for a serous beau.”
Anna rushed toward her mother, who deftly moved the letter to her other hand to keep it away. They pretended to tussle for a few moments until the letter was handed over. Mary shrugged her shoulders in resignation. Her daughter was growing up.
Anna’s heart raced. It WAS from George. He had written her just like he promised. It had taken him two whole months to write. Anna had conjured up all manner of reasons why he hadn’t written sooner. Indian fights? Bear attacks? Lost on the endless prairie? He had better have a good excuse, she fumed.
She gazed at the letter for a moment. It was stiffened by something thick inside. A photograph? She hoped it wasn’t one of those cheap tintypes that fade and flake off over time. Well, she told herself, I’ll cherish it anyway. And where could he even get a photograph in the wilds of Montana?
With trembling hands, she began to open the letter. She looked up. Mary was still there waiting anxiously to learn what this audacious young man had to say to her daughter.
“Mother!” Anna fumed.
Mary smiled and left, glad this handsome soldier was stuck somewhere in Indian country.
Anna breathed deeply. She carefully opened the flap and pulled out the contents. It was a picture! And a striking one at that. She barely recognized George in his snappy dress uniform, complete with a braided sash over his shoulder. He looked so important. A dashing warrior of the plains. She flipped it over to read the inscription on the back.
“Just take a look at this it is not very good”
Not very good? He’s the smartest-looking soldier in the whole army.
“Will have some good ones taken soon”
Sure, take lots more and send them all to me.
“I am not that solom”
S-o-l-o-m? Oh, he meant solemn. Do they let you spell that way in the army?
She looked at the return address.
Fort Assiniboine, Montana Terr.
August 20, 1885
She frowned a second as she read the salutation.
Dear Little Annie,
Little Annie? Oh dear, he thinks of me as a child. I’m old enough to catch a young man’s eye. Ella May is only 2 years older than me and she’s betrothed.
I’m sorry I haven’t written. Much has happened since I arrived in Montana. We barely got off the steamboat at Fort Benton when we were sent to the field. Just know that I am thinking of you as I lay out my blanket on these dry, lonesome plains. I miss you and all the folks at home.
Fort Assiniboine has been a pleasant surprise. It Is the largest and finest post on the frontier. It has fine brick buildings, stables and shops. The men have plenty to keep them occupied. The country is fit for ranching and not much else. We have Indian reservations on both sides of us. Apart from the Indians, there aren’t many people north of the Missouri. The few settlers here are mostly mixed bloods who came out here years ago to hunt buffalo. They call themselves Metis and mostly speak French and Dree. Their numbers are increasing daily as refugees from the Riel Rebellion in the Saskatchewan country arrive. Most claim to have been born on this side of the border. Their leader was Louis Riel. He last lived in Montana, where he was a school teacher. Now, he is about to be hanged.
We patrol all the way to the Rocky Mountains and south to the Missouri River. Besides the Canadian rebels, we deal with Indian whiskey smugglers, renegades, and rustlers. I have lots of stories to tell, but I’ll only relate one today.
Two weeks ago, I led a patrol to the Little Rocky Mountains. The country belongs to the Gros Ventres tribe, but white men often encroach upon it. Our horses were getting thirsty, so we rode up a wooded canyon that looked like it had water. There, we stumbled on a freshly abandoned campsite. From the look of the things scattered about, the occupants had left in a hurry. There were two saddles on the ground, but no horses. I smelled trouble. After watering our horses, we crossed the stream and proceeded back toward the canyon’s mouth.
I could not believe my eyes when I saw two men hanging from a branch of a big cottonwood tree. There had been trouble with rustlers in the country. I wasn’t sure whether the dead men belonged to that class or had been killed by them..
I ordered the bodies cut down, and we set about burying them as best we could. We scraped out a depression in the ground, laid the men side by side, and covered them with rocks. I made notes to describe them and where they were buried.. That way, their friends, if they have any, can give them a proper burial.
Later that day, we ran into two men herding about 20 cows and a couple of led ponies. They could have been rustlers, so I approached them with care. One was a rough-looking character who went by the name of Pike Landusky. The other man was a Mr. Stuart. Stuart seemed to be a man of some refinement. Both had been in the territory since the ‘60s, when there was nothing here but trappers and wild Indians. I pointed to the DHS brand on one of the cows and asked Stuart who it belonged to.
“That’s my brand.”
“Do you know anything about the 2 men we found hanging up in that canyon?”
“Could be they were rustlers. There are still a few left in the territory,” Stuart answered.
“Whose range is this?”
“It’s all Indian land. They let us use it to run cattle. Pike, here, does a little prospecting in these mountains. The Gros Ventre don’t mind if we run our herds here so long as we give them fresh beef now and then. They live mighty poorly since the buffalo ran out.”
“The Injuns don’t take kindly to them that steals our beef,” added Pike. “Neither do we,” he said, winking at Stuart.
By then, I was pretty sure I knew who had killed the men, and it wasn’t Indians. I filed a report with the US Marshal later, but I guess nothing was done about it. These people have been making their own law here for a long, long time. It turns out Stuart is the leader of a vigilante group called Stuart’s Stranglers. Last year they went to war with the rustlers and killed dozens of them. In one case, they surrounded a big camp of the thieves on the Muselshell and nearly wiped them out. One man got away by taking a canoe down the Missouri. They say he was past Fort Union before he stopped paddling.
I was in Fort Benton last week when I ran into Stuart again. He was dressed in the finery of a country gentleman. He let me call him Granville and explained that he was the newly elected president of the Montana Stockgrowers Association. There was no mention of his widely-publicised role as the head of Stuart’s Stranglers. He commands a lot of respect in the territory. He has served several terms in the legislature. He apparently only hangs rustlers in his spare time.
Stuart pointed at the steamers unloading at the quay.
“See those? Most of us got here on one of them. They’ll all be gone in a few years. The railroad is coming through, probably along the Milk River. A smart young man, like you, ought to get some bottom land for a home ranch. You’ll make money when you can ship your cattle east.”
I had to tell him I had other plans.
Well, only 3 more dreary years until I see you again. By then, I might be able to go home on the train. If you get any prettier, I will have to come calling.
Affectionally yours,
George
Anna sighed. He thinks I’m pretty. Do I have a chance? Then her heart shuddered. What about that dark Stockdale family secret? Did George even suspect? Should she tell him? Of course. But when? How? Would it matter?
Note from the author: Though the middle initial doesn’t match, I suspect that the man in the photo is my Great-Grandfather, George Schempp.
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